Beautiful
by wildegreenlight
Summary: How had he managed? All these years...without touching her, really touching her? How had he lived in a world where he hadn't tasted the tiny constellation of freckles on the small of her back? Cassiopeia.


When Ron Weasley was six years old, his brother Bill took him flying over the Burrow: Christmas snow blanketed everything for miles around. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

When he was eleven, Hagrid guided the first years across the lake: Hogwarts emerged, even more impressive than his brothers fantastic descriptions. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

When Ron was seventeen, Harry led him into a shabby tent in the Forest of Dean: Hermione rose from her cot, confused and disheveled. It was the most beautiful beautiful sight he had ever seen.

Until now.

Morning sun was slipping through the small gap in the window curtain, lending a rosy glow to the room. Although he was habitually a late sleeper, Ron had, over the course of the last two weeks, found that he rather enjoyed being an early riser. Waking early gave him the chance to do exactly what he was doing right now, stare at the most beautiful sight he had ever seen: Hermione, sleeping peacefully next to him, her bare shoulder peeking out from under the tangled sheets. The sheets in question had, in fact, been perfectly smooth last night. He knew this because, in addition to a hundred other barmy things that muggles did, apparently they paid people to make up their beds in the morning and pull their blankets back at night. Hermione had called it _turn down service,_ assuring him that it was common practice at all the best hotels. In all honesty, the fact that he'd heard anything she was saying _right then_ while she was standing next to the _one big bed_ in the _one room_ that they would share was a miracle, his mind skipping ahead to invision just what activities those blankets might be complicit in later.

Thinking back on it now, memories of that first night still had the blurry edges of dream around them, the way he had imagined it would be like to look into a crystal ball. A misconception he'd kept until he'd been so thoroughly disappointed in third year. After the final battle things between the two of them had progressed at a rapid pace. It was almost as if after all the years of not moving at all, of stalling or even regressing, they were both determined to make up for lost time. He'd been worried at first that all of the grief and sadness might make for a less than appealing time to _explore_ a new relationship, but those fears had been short lived thanks to Hermione. Hidden away in his father's shed she had convinced him: first with her brilliant words, then with her even more brilliant hands, that it was precisely because of all the those things that they owed it to themselves to make the most of every minute they were given. _How could he argue with that?_

The few weeks they had spent at the Burrow before leaving for Australia had healed them both in so many ways. There had never been any doubt in his mind that he would go with her to find her parents, and her insistence that he might need to stay and tend to the rest of the Weasleys was feeble at best. Not unsurprisingly the most resistance had actually come from his own parents and, of course, Harry. All of them were hesitant to even think about the pair alone halfway across the world. It was only when Kingsley assured them that every detail had been planned by his personal office in conjunction with the Australian Ministry, that peace was restored. And he had to admit that the new Minister for Magic was more than true to his word. By the time they arrived in Sydney the Grangers had already been located and preparations had been made to begin the reversal of the memory charms.

A very distinguished looking mediwitch had sat with them inside a heavily panelled office to explain the process. Ron held Hermione's hand, running small circles over the back of it with his thumb to try and calm her, while the Healer first complimented Hermione's excellent spellwork and then laid out their plan to restore the Grangers' memories. The process would take at least two weeks, perhaps closer to three.

During the vast majority of this time, her parents would continue to live their "normal life" in Australia. When undoing memory charms, especially complex ones, it was best to make the reset gradual. Basically the experts, thanks to Kingsley's gratitude no expense had been spared, cast a charm on them that allowed a small portion of their minds to be blissfully unaware of the changes that were taking place in the rest of their brains.

When all of the necessary repairs, so to speak, had been made, they would remove the barrier and allow the old and new memories to mix.

They had given Hermione the option of deleting the last year from their consciousness. It was possible to give them fake memories to fill the gap and they could wake up in her childhood home being none the wiser. It had been an appealing plan. One they had discussed at great length.

 _Ron, would it be better to spare them all of what happened? Do they really need to know? Am I being a coward to even consider it? What if they hate me? What if they don't want to come back?_

He had done his best to help her. He knew that he shouldn't tell her what to do; his main job was to help her sort it out for herself and then support her choice no matter what. In the end she had decided that it would be too difficult to live a lie and force them to do the same. If they could not forgive her, it was best to face it as soon as possible. He was proud of her choice, proud of her in general. He tried his best to assure her that they would understand, that whatever anger they felt would be far outweighed by relief and gratitude. She seemed to believe him even though he knew she was more afraid than she admitted. And while he felt fairly confident that they would come around, he was prepared to protect and defend her, a vow he'd solidified at Shell Cottage, even if that meant he had to go toe to toe with her own parents.

It had been a brilliant two weeks. In some ways it felt as if they had just gotten there, but in a more real way he found it harder and harder to imagine how he had lived _before_. It still amazed him a bit; he'd always assumed, when he had dared to dream of a mutual future for them, that it would be awkward, at least in the beginning. The truth, as it turned out, was that is was anything but. His sixteen year-old self, poor love-sick git that he was, would never have believed how natural it felt to be halfway around the world sleeping starkers with the woman he loved.

He should probably let her sleep; they'd gone to bed relatively early last night, but they hadn't exactly _rested_. He really shouldn't want her so much-again-so soon-should he? It was a right bizarre feeling, this mix of overall satisfaction and intense longing all at the same time.

Without much conscious thought, he brushed his fingertips over the curve of her shoulder and across her collarbone. How had he managed? All these years...without touching her, _really_ touching her? How had he lived in a world where he hadn't tasted the tiny constellation of freckles on the small of her back? _Cassiopeia._ A world where he'd never heard her moan his name?

He moaned himself then, half chuckling, as his growing erection came into contact with the cool cotton of the sheets. Maybe it had all worked out for the best. If by some miracle they _had_ acted on their feelings sooner, it was still a bit boggling to realize that she had in fact felt the same way he had, it was possible that Voldermort would have indeed been victorious. Honestly, how many horcruxes can you find and destroy while shagging non-stop in a tent? Not many he guessed. Not to mention that he was pretty sure they'd have been expelled when he lost all control and ravished her on the common room sofa, _or in the Great Hall, or on the bloody Hogwarts Express._

It was an exaggeration he knew, but not much of one. Even now, with the long list of stresses and distractions surrounding them, she was without question his highest priority. He was still worried about his family, but that was nothing new. The tragedy of Fred's death had seemed to simply take the place of all the anxiety he'd had for _years_ about his loved ones being on the front lines.

"Always thought I knew you so well," Hermione's sleepy voice pulled him from his reverie, "but I guess not."

"Whatd'ya mean? If you don't, " he leaned over and gave the tip of her nose a quick kiss, "then I reckon no one does."

She smiled up at him, "Would've sworn that you were a late sleeper, but you've been awake every morning before me," her feigned pout turned every bit of his remaining attention to the seemingly endless list of activities he could plan for that adorably plump lower lip.

"Who would choose sleep over looking at this?" He cupped her face gently with his free hand, caressing her cheek with his thumb.

Her gaze dropped ever so slightly, a blush rising to her cheeks, "You keep saying those kind of things, I just might start to believe you."

"Not gonna stop-you'll just have to trust me."

"Oh, I do trust you, " she turned her head slightly, kissing his palm, filling it with the warmth of her breath, "but you know me," he nodded, completely enraptured by her, "sometimes I need a demonstration to really _grasp_ the concept."

 _Bloody Hell._ She needed a demonstration? He would demonstrate her into the mattress. He'd demonstrate until his demonstrator couldn't demonstrate any more.

Considering his current level of excitement, his movements were amazingly controlled and unrushed. Threading his long fingers up through her disheveled curls, he pulled her in for a kiss. After all the things they'd done together in the last month, how could it be that a kiss-their tongues rolling languidly together-could still be so effing hot?

As one kiss rolled into another and another, his need for her doubled over on itself. She ran her hands over the planes of his back, urging him closer. He obliged, catching her tiny huff of frustration when she realized there was still a sheet between them. Balancing his weight on the tops of his thighs, he gave her the opportunity to remove the impediment.

As she brought him into her arms again, there was nothing between them but their mutual groans of appreciation. Her bare skin pressed against his...there were just no words to properly describe how perfect it felt, each time even more amazing than the last. There was a growing urgency in her touches, in the insistence of her mouth, his vague plan for leisurely love making drowning in their desire to be closer, always closer.

She opened her knees even wider, cradling his hips with the warmth of her thighs, and his now nearly painful erection brushed the silken heat of her folds. He had to break the kiss, gulping for air, trying desperately to hold one last thread of his self control. He wouldn't just let himself thrust into her so selfishly, he needed to be sure that she was ready, that she enjoyed it as much as he did.

With every ounce of self control he possessed, Ron stilled the involuntary thrusting of his hips. Dropping gentle kisses across her jaw, he worked his way down to the delicious spot where here neck curved into her shoulder. As he ran his tongue along her skin, Hermione's moans vibrated through him, her body arching into his. He could feel her wetness as she moved, so close to his own throbbing need. Shifting slightly, he traveled downward finding her taut nipple eager for his mouth. She whimpered, and he murmured his love across her breast in worship.

Holding his weight with one hand, he brought the fingertips of the other to the meeting of her thighs. She was slick with desire, gasping as he tenderly caressed her, her hips countering his movements with small circles.

"Oh God!"

Her hands clutched at him wildly, but he did not stop. He knew her signals; he'd always been so observant of her, and now more than ever it gave him unaccountable joy that he knew her better than anyone. He was the only one who knew, _who would ever know if he had his way_ , exactly what brought her pleasure. As much as his body ached for release, he wouldn't allow it until she found her own.

"Ronnnn."

He lifted his head to look at her face. She was stunning: eyes closed, hair spread wildly on the pillow, one hand behind her on the headboard, the other gripping his forearm. Using recently gained experience, he slipped his two longest fingers gently inside her while applying pressure with his thumb where she liked it most. Just as he curled his fingers slightly forward, her eyes sprang open, and for a horrible second he thought he might have hurt her.

"Ok?" his voice trembled with an even mix of desire and concern.

"Now...need you...now!"

His lust addled brain struggled to understand exactly what she meant, but when she wrapped one leg around his hip and tried to pull him toward her, comprehension bloomed. Determined to give her whatever she wanted, he crawled upward sliding his body over hers in a way that made them both moan in anticipation.

"Ron….please."

 _Please_ … that word, from her lips, hit him like an expertly cast _incendio_ ; every part of him was aflame. He released a whispered string of curses as they were completely joined, knowing he would never grow tired of feeling her wrapped around him in every way. Never grow tired of seeing her eyes so full of love and passion. He had given himself to her, long ago; it hadn't even been a conscience choice, but now, to be able to do it so freely, and have her do the same, was almost overwhelming.

They moved together, pushing and pulling with increasing urgency. Her hands clutched at him, signaling her approval as he hooked her left knee over his arm, maximizing friction in the most crucial place. It was such a paradox, climbing higher and higher desperately trying to reach the peak, but also never wanting it to end. Even as he tried to stay in that precise moment, he felt himself coming close to the edge.

"'Ermione," he wanted to tell her how much he loved her, how amazing she was, how brilliant she made him feel, but he was too far gone.

Frantically they sought to be nearer: to one another, to bliss. He pushed into her as she pulled him closer; her orgasm triggering his own. They were left clinging together, gasping for breath, trembling with feeling. He rolled them over, bringing her securely into the crook of his arm. The warmth of her breath tickled across his chest, and he kissed the top of her adorably unruly curls. He wished he could freeze this moment, keep her there: safe and happy forever.

She murmured something, he could feel the vibrations, but couldn't make out her actual words.

Not able to do much better himself, he grunted a quizzical "Hmmm?" in her direction.

She laughed softly, raising up just enough to look up at him, "Just wondering how long we could actually stay in this bed."

"Not sure. I guess eventually we'll have to use the loo...or eat."

"There is room service for the food...and I think we've already discussed the virtues of that brilliant shower."

"Sorted," he sighed contentedly when she lay back down.

He'd only closed his eyes for a moment, but sleep had nearly claimed him when she asked, "So how long do you think we could stay in this room then?"

Hugging her tighter to him, he gave his earnest reply, "For as long as you want."

"That long?"

He kissed her forehead gently in agreement. They both knew that they couldn't stay forever. They would eventually have to face the ugliness that still remained in the world they'd so selflessly fought to save. But, for now, in the circle of their arms, everything was beautiful.


End file.
